This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison: Text of the Poem

In the June of 1797 some long-expected friends paid a visit to the author's cottage; and on the morning of their arrival, he met with an accident, which disabled him from walking during the whole of their stay. One evening, when they had left him for a few hours, he composed the following lines in the garden-bower.

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lostBeauties and feelings, such as would have beenMost sweet to my remembrance even when ageHad dimm'd mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile,Friends, whom I never more may meet again,On springy heath, along the hill-top edge,Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance,To that still roaring dell, of which I told;The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep,And only speckled by the mid-day sun;Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rockFlings arching like a bridge; -- that branchless ash,Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leavesNe'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,Fann'd by the water-fall! and there my friendsBehold the dark green file of long lank weeds,That all at once (a most fantastic sight!)Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edgeOf the blue clay-stone.

A delightComes sudden on my heart, and I am gladAs I myself were there! Nor in this bower,This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'dMuch that has sooth'd me. Pale beneath the blazeHung the transparent foliage; and I watch'dSome broad and sunny leaf, and lov'd to seeThe shadow of the leaf and stem aboveDappling its sunshine! And that walnut-treeWas richly ting'd, and a deep radiance layFull on the ancient ivy, which usurpsThose fronting elms, and now, with blackest massMakes their dark branches gleam a lighter hueThrough the late twilight; and though now the batWheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters,Yet still the solitary humble-beeSings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall knowThat Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure;No plot so narrow, be but Nature there,No waste so vacant, but may well employEach faculty of sense, and keep the heartAwake to Love and Beauty! and sometimes'Tis well to be bereft of promis'd good,That we may lift the soul, and contemplateWith lively joy the joys we cannot share.My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rookBeat its straight path along the dusky airHomewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light)Had cross'd the mighty Orb's dilated glory,While thou stood'st gazing; or, when all was still,Flew creaking o'er thy head, and had a charmFor thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whomNo sound is dissonant which tells of Life.